


squirming at your feet-ish

by cumaeansibyl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dom/sub Undertones, Foot Fetish, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Masturbation, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shoe Kink, big "hope this doesn't awaken anything in me" energy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl/pseuds/cumaeansibyl
Summary: "It’s the distillation of his sins, and Crowley wants it with a passion that surprises even him, accustomed as he is to finding new and strange ways of wanting Aziraphale."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 127
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Our Own Side





	squirming at your feet-ish

_And O! I felt an awful thrill of Love  
As with one heart-beat of wild ecstasy  
I set my heel upon that Serpent’s head…_

From ‘The Death of St. Francis’  
By Arthur Shearly Cripps (b. 1869)

Crowley has no idea why he suddenly has to go to a parish charity dance. It’s not an assignment from Hell, it’s not related to any of his ongoing projects, and it’s not the sort of place anyone important would be likely to show up. There’s plenty of sin to be found, but of a small order: excellent women arguing over the Easter flowers, dragged-along husbands ogling the minister’s young wife. Something stronger has led him here, tingling all through his fingers and toes until he gave in, and he’s well past annoyed at his inability to figure it out. He absently accepts a cup of stewed tea from the refreshment table, figuring it’s best to just let things happen to him for a little while until something makes sense.

Moving at the will of the crowd, which he finds surprisingly robust for festivities of such dismal virtue, he finds himself drifting toward the anxious line of unpartnered young ladies against the far wall. Someone is talking very loudly in the near distance -- holding forth, in fact, on rearmament and coalition government. He’s wrong in nearly every way it’s possible to be, but he’s got the sort of rolling, sententious delivery that leaves hardly any gap for interruption, to the point where the dazed listener wonders when he has time to breathe.

“Well, that certainly is one way of looking at it,” says a voice at once unexpected and as familiar as his own, and Crowley feels himself go loose all over with relief. Oh, well, if he’s here for Aziraphale, it’s all clear -- though he’s sure the angel’s in no danger at all, except maybe of being bored to death. Why does he still feel such urgency?

Then a sightline opens up in the crowd and the casual fancy-meeting-you-here smirk he’d been working on sputters and dies. Aziraphale shines in cream fringed with gold, a loose low-waisted cut that emphasizes his round belly and hips, the daring-ten-years-ago hemline calling attention to dimpled calves in sheer silk and -- all the little saints and sinners, his _shoes_. Those gleaming pink satin shoes. Crowley’s struck by an incredibly specific sense memory one hundred and fifty years old: the square heel of Aziraphale’s pink satin court shoe digging into the small of his back as he slides his cock into Aziraphale’s arse, as he fucks him in slow punishing thrusts up against a dank stone wall. Aziraphale’s silken legs wrapped around his waist, his chained hands pinned helpless between them, and that hard heel grinding into Crowley’s skin where his shirt’s come out of his breeches, leaving a raw red mark he feels every time he moves for the next week --

Aziraphale catches sight of him at almost the same moment, in time to see Crowley lift his unbelieving gaze from the floor, and goes red to the roots of his marcelled hair. That’s interesting, isn’t it? He’s been irritated by Crowley’s sudden appearances before, or apprehensive, but never _embarrassed_. Where does this come from?

The angel glances down at his shoes, then back up, with wide guilty eyes, and the demon understands everything. Oh, that may be last decade’s frock, but these cunning d’Orsay pumps are this season’s latest. He can see it all as it happened: the angel’s eye caught by a petal-pink shimmer in a shop window, the hand-wringing indecision, the sudden set jaw as he marched into the store -- and then, afterward, rationalization coming in to justify the impulse. He had to find a reason to keep them, and thus a reason had been found; if there hadn’t already been a parish dance to wear them to, Crowley is certain Aziraphale would have invented one. Isn’t quite certain he didn’t invent this one, if he’s honest.

This, now, solves the mystery of why Crowley himself is here: how could he miss this much angelic vice in one place? There’s always something delightful about watching the angel indulge, especially when he’s not supposed to know about it -- and it’s not like he’s going to let Aziraphale think he’s gotten away with it, either.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fell,” Crowley says, advancing with a perfectly proper bow that nonetheless gives onlookers the impression of insolence. “What a delightful surprise!”

“Oh -- Mr. Crowley, I’m sure I never thought to see you here.” Aziraphale flutters his hand -- plump and delicate, with a round forearm Crowley longs to line with sucking, biting kisses, _no, focus, keep it together_.

“Do you think me so uncharitable?” Crowley pouts a little, drawing up his eyebrows for maximum pathos. “You wound me.”

“Not to a good cause itself, perhaps, but to the entertainments in its honor,” Aziraphale says, “You’ve never had a taste for such -- _tepid gaieties_ , I think you called them once.”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” says Crowley, though he means the language more than the sentiment. “How much more excitement could I possibly take?”

Aziraphale titters and averts his face in the classic stop-you-awful-thing move, one round shoulder lifting to touch his chin, and blushes bright pink to the dress’s modest decolletage. How far down does that blush go? Crowley needs to know how far down it goes _right now_. He slides closer, cautiously, ready to whisper a suggestion. Then he’s poleaxed by the angel’s smell: there’s a top note of violets in his nose, another bit of vanity put on for the night, but in the back of his throat he can taste overheated skin, blood rushing beneath, and the thick savoury-sweet musk of arousal. Crowley manages not to pin him to the floor and sink his teeth into that soft flushed throat in full view of everyone there, but it’s a near-run thing.

“I say,” the man who’d been talking to Aziraphale grumbles, “can’t you let a chap make his point?”

“Oh, but I thought you had?” Aziraphale opens his blue eyes very wide, as though to demonstrate that nothing so unbecoming as wit lurked behind them. “You were very thorough.”

“Dreadfully sorry, what,” Crowley drawls, sliding his hand around Aziraphale’s arm just to press his fingers into that tender little crease at the elbow, “but me and the merry widow here simply must catch up. Come along, old thing, let’s quaff a cup of the rosy, or whatever they’ve got here in lieu.”

“I shan’t thank you for that,” Aziraphale says as Crowley leads him away, “but I did think he was going to talk my head off. Dreadful man, really, but -- what are you doing here?”

“You tell me, angel,” Crowley says, glancing about to make sure no one notices them before shoving Aziraphale ahead of him through the door to the parish offices. The corridor is dark and quiet and Aziraphale barely has time to protest before Crowley shoves him up against the nearest clear spot of wall and stops his mouth with a hot insistent kiss. Aziraphale makes a noise that sounds like a protest, and Crowley pulls back, but Aziraphale only grabs the sunglasses that were digging into his cheek and tosses them off into the darkness before pulling Crowley’s mouth to his again.

Crowley jerks the zip of Aziraphale’s dress down halfway and pulls the dress down his shoulders, just enough to dip his hands into the top of Aziraphale’s corselette. “Why _am_ I here, Aziraphale?” he hisses, cupping Aziraphale’s soft heavy breasts and lifting them up and out. “Why did I feel like I had to be here? Why did I find you here -- in this dress and -- and those _fucking_ shoes --”

“What about my -- oh, goodness!” Crowley pushes his face between Aziraphale’s breasts, licking at each in turn, sucking soft pink marks into the skin. He wants to slither in and live here, couched in an angel’s bosom. Aziraphale’s chest is a delight in any shape, always gloriously warm and soft and sensitive, and there’s so _much_ of it like this, overflowing his hands. The areolae are larger this way, too; he almost can’t fit his mouth around one, at least until it crinkles against his flat-pressing tongue, drawing up beautifully tight for him to nibble and suck.

“You know _what_ ,” Crowley says as Aziraphale pulls him up by the hair for a kiss. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you bought them --” here Crowley pushes his hard cock against Aziraphale’s belly for emphasis -- “and you knew what they would do to me when I saw them.”

“I didn’t buy them for _you_ ,” Aziraphale protests between kisses. “I just wanted to look nice.”

“Don’t lie, you vain little thing, you wanted to look _pretty_.” Crowley captures the angel’s nipples between his thumbs and the sides of his hands, pinching and rolling them with merciless pressure. Aziraphale moans and moves his hands to cover Crowley’s, encouraging a firmer grasp, watching as his breasts squeeze and bulge between Crowley’s long, restless fingers. “You wanted everyone to look at you, to _like_ looking at you. You think I don’t know your little sins, angel? I could smell you all the way across London.”

“I -- I didn’t mean to --” Aziraphale’s staring down at how Crowley’s debauched him, his clothing shoved down wantonly, wet pink suck marks all over his breasts, nipples peaked so sweetly. “I truly didn’t mean to disturb you, Crowley, you must know, I wasn’t trying to -- though of course now that you’re here --”

“Of course.” Crowley laughs and kisses Aziraphale with mirth on his lips, hands coming up to cup his face. “Now that I’m here, be a shame not to sin a little more, hmm?”

“It’s not a sin, darling,” Aziraphale says, and it gives Crowley a sick little thrill when he comes this close to saying what it is, when he starts sentences he can never, ever finish.

He drops to his hands and knees, dips his head, and rubs his cheek up the side of Aziraphale’s calf to feel the fine grain of the woven silk threads against his skin. He licks his lips, drags his open mouth along the rounded muscle, feeling the tension there from walking in heels. The flavor is dry, a little dusty. Tiny golden hairs have slipped through the weave here and there, tickling his lips.

Aziraphale points his toe and, delicately, pokes Crowley’s sternum. “You’re so interested in my shoes,” he says, “here. Have a look.”

Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s foot, stroking the pink satin petals of the shoe. “You always did like a dainty slipper, hmm? Suits you.” He presses a wet kiss to the delicate sugar-white instep, where the skin is soft and thin over the tendons that ripple as Aziraphale wiggles his unseen toes. Crowley wants to suck those toes through the silk, work his tongue between them to taste the salt there, but he would have to take off this shoe -- this soft, shining emblem of Aziraphale’s vanity, an angel’s craving to inspire admiration, envy, lust. It’s the distillation of his sins, and Crowley wants it with a passion that surprises even him, accustomed as he is to finding new and strange ways of wanting Aziraphale.

The sides of the shoe are cut down to the footbed, showing the high, tender arch of Aziraphale’s foot. Crowley flickers his tongue at it and Aziraphale gasps softly, but doesn’t kick -- not too ticklish, then. He tastes the fabric of the footbed, nearly unmarked, just the slightest tinge of sweat. An idea takes shape in his head and he licks Aziraphale’s sole again, softer this time, a slow broad stroke.

Above him, Aziraphale makes a bitten-off _nnn!_ sound, and Crowley looks up, afraid he’s finally crossed the hair-thin line between daring and perverse. But the angel only trails his fingers through Crowley’s hair, just above his ear. Crowley lowers his head and licks again, almost sucking at the bottom of Aziraphale’s foot, wetting the stocking. He holds Aziraphale’s gaze the whole time, almost defiant in offering up this strange submission: _take it if you dare_.

Aziraphale slips his toe under Crowley’s chin and tips it up into the dim light. His fingers tighten in Crowley’s hair, to the point of pain. 

“Do it.”

Crowley fumbles one-handed at his flies, loosens his belt. His cock got hard at an awkward angle and he swears under his breath as he tries to pull it out. Just the touch of his hand is enough to make him grit his teeth and tense up, fighting the impulse to stroke it hard and fast, to come _now right now_. The weight of Aziraphale’s attention makes him stop, breathe deep, bow his head. He kisses the tiny opening at the toe of the pink shoe. Then he cups it in both hands, bracing it, and slides the head of his prick into the narrow gap between the high arch of Aziraphale’s foot and the slick satin of the insole.

“Oh… oh my word,” Aziraphale breathes. He digs his nails -- just a trifle longer tonight, and varnished shell-pink -- into the nape of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley groans, rubs his cheekbone against the hem of Aziraphale’s skirt where it’s been pushed up to his knee. It rides up further and he noses up underneath it, eyes fluttering closed, up into that heated little space that smells of violets and sweat and need. His parted lips touch the dimpled skin swelling out gently above the stocking top and he sucks at it on reflex, drawing warm flesh into his mouth to bite and mark.

The textures against his prick are exquisitely strange: the silk weave stretched over Aziraphale’s skin is slippery and rough at the same time, dragging against his sensitive cockhead with a friction that makes all the muscles along his spine contract in mixed protest and need. The satin footbed is smooth but unyielding beneath. He can’t thrust far, only a few inches before he’s stopped against the ball of Aziraphale’s foot, and it’s never going to be enough, but even that has him aching with lust -- that he might abase himself at the angel’s feet so completely, only to be permitted this and no more.

He feels the confining skirt pulled up and away from his head. Aziraphale rucks dress and slip up around his waist, revealing that he’s gone without knickers tonight, and the realization nearly knocks Crowley out. He makes a choked consonant sound and sways upward, scenting the moisture darkening those golden curls. Aziraphale watches him from under lowered lashes, his lips parted and the tip of his tongue visible between his teeth. “You filthy beast,” Aziraphale says fondly, and Crowley hides his face in the incomparable softness of angelic thigh, as if he didn’t have his trousers open and his prick out where anyone could see him. “Do you like that, my dear? Does it feel good, rutting against me like a dog?”

“Yeah,” Crowley whispers. It does feel good, the firm pressure and the weird friction, but it also feels wrong in that peculiar human way: not immoral, and no messier than ordinary sex, but so far off from how the parts were intended to fit together that it's like getting away with something _very_ bad. He looks up at Aziraphale, wanting him to see the flush on his face, the hungry gleam in his yellow eyes. “Feels dirty.”

“ _Very_ dirty. You’re ruining my lovely new shoes, you know,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Getting your filth all over them.” One hand still cradles the back of Crowley’s head; the other strokes down gently over his mons, the middle and ring fingers slipping between his plump outer lips. Crowley can’t see what he’s doing from this angle, but he can hear the soft liquid sounds, like the sound of a deep wet kiss. He imagines Aziraphale pressing just inside himself, then drawing slicked fingertips up over his tender, rippled folds, seeking the perfect spot -- not too sensitive, just right to build a deep, thrilling warmth with every stroke.

Crowley cranes his neck, twists his spine like the starving snake he is, trying to get closer, but Aziraphale grips his hair and tugs back sharply. “No,” he says lightly, though Crowley can hear the tremor in his voice, “that isn’t for you. You -- mm -- you’re going to take what I’ve given you, and you’re going to like it.” His fingers delve deep, then draw back out with a wet sucking sound, and the smell of his juices is heavy in the air now. Crowley breathes it like opium smoke, drifts dizzy and warm in it, his blood pulsing loud in his ears, in time with the wet slip-slip sound of Aziraphale’s fingers. They’re working quick and light now, shining up to the third knuckle from fucking into Aziraphale’s slick ready cunt.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps, and his breath catches in his throat, his whole body arching rigid against the wall for a long moment, muscles locked as his orgasm bolts through him. Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s toes curling. He’s so close now, his hips jerking in quick erratic thrusts, but he can’t get there. The friction on his cock feels exactly like the relief of scratching poison ivy; it’s really only making things worse but he can’t bear to stop. It's a sick, urgent pleasure, drawing closer and closer to pain the further it mounts.

The tension leaves Aziraphale’s muscles all at once and he draws a long, luxurious breath, settling back against the wall. Crowley turns his yellow eyes up in a silent plea, shivering and desperate on his knees before the very image of satisfaction.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You wouldn’t believe what a delightful picture you make with my heel set upon you.” He touches his sticky fingertips to Crowley’s lower lip, easing his mouth open to slide them in deep. Crowley latches on with his teeth and sucks them like they’re all he’ll ever get, licking frantically around and between them, filling his mouth with the maddening scent-taste of Aziraphale’s climax. The angel’s fingers push down hard on his tongue and some kind of sound escapes him, a gargled moan, and he should be embarrassed but it’s so _good_ , needing this so badly.

“Yes, that's right. Bring yourself off on me,” the angel coaxes him. “Make me just as filthy as you.” 

Crowley makes another awful sound and jerks himself fast, pressing the head of his prick against Aziraphale’s arch just where the flesh is softest. It’s only a moment before he comes, so hard he goes lightheaded, his cock spasming fiercely in his hand. His semen spatters Aziraphale’s instep, his ankle, the dimple of his calf, dripping down his stocking, staining the silk.

They’re both breathless for a moment, Crowley resting his head on Aziraphale’s knee, exhausted and too overwhelmed to look up.

“Sweetheart,” Aziraphale breathes at last. He touches Crowley’s forehead with wet fingers.

Crowley’s knees ache fiercely, but he wants nothing more than to stay right here, underfoot. “I ruined your shoe,” he says, like that’s the important thing here.

“You did rather,” Aziraphale says, lifting his foot to see, but he sounds -- proud? “I’m not certain it’s precisely what I had in mind when I bought these shoes, but. Well.” He gives a little wiggle of the shoulders and his dress obligingly re-clothes him. “We learn new things every day, don’t we?”

Crowley bounces back onto his heels, then up to his feet, in a single sinuous motion that never fails to disconcert human observers. “Oh, is that what we were doing,” he says. He dares a glance at Aziraphale’s feet, but the stains have disappeared.

“Apologies, my dear,” Aziraphale says, seeing the look, “but I couldn’t just go out there like that, as appealing as that prospect may be.”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley croaks, imagining Aziraphale strutting out into a crowd of good wholesome Anglicans with Crowley’s spend streaked over his body for all to see, the unmistakable white splatter, the _smell_...

“At least I’ll always know it was there, when I wear these again.” Aziraphale looks up at him, doe-eyed and innocent. “It’s a pity they don’t match, though. I don’t suppose…”

Crowley sways forward to lay his weary head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Oh, get out of it, you tramp,” he mumbles as Aziraphale wraps him up in those soft, soft arms. “You’re a bloody menace, is what you are.”

“It got you here, didn’t it?” Aziraphale says complacently, and Crowley laughs against his neck without a sound, because it surely did, as it always has and always will.

**Author's Note:**

> _Pictured: them SHOES_
> 
> I'm honestly surprised there hasn't been more shoe porn in this fandom, given how bonkers everyone went over Aziraphale's Bastille kicks, but I guess it's not everyone who's willing to pop open an incognito window and search "can you fuck a shoe." This fandom is an experience.
> 
> All praise and thanks to champion beta [Laura Shapiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/), who always catches the parts where I forget people aren't in my head and don't know what I'm talking about if I don't explain it.
> 
> The finest fainting chaise in the land to my fashion guru [voidbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidbat).
> 
> I'm on tumblr at cumaeansibyl, come say hi!


End file.
